


Hangover Protocol

by chelicerata



Series: Vital Signs [2]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: And a poor attempt at cooking breakfast, Angst, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:09:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24239317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chelicerata/pseuds/chelicerata
Summary: But if Mr. Stark did mean it like that - if he does want Peter, actually wants Peter and not just the closest warm body, if he wants Peter so badly he maybe even pushed Peter away because he couldn’t stand to be near him without having him – if it’s just that he feels guilty about it - it makes Peter think that maybe he has a chance.It also makes him pretty fucking annoyed.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Series: Vital Signs [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1749523
Comments: 19
Kudos: 198





	Hangover Protocol

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who left such nice comments/kudos on Vital Signs. Here's the self indulgent follow up. :)

When Peter wakes up, for a moment he can’t remember where he is.

Then he registers the heavy weight of someone laying on top of him, the sticky feel of the leather couch against his cheek, and it all comes rushing back to him in one horrible burst.

_Oh my god._

He looks down. Mr. Stark is stretched out on top of him, dead to the world, face buried in Peter’s shirt.

_Oh my **god.**_

“Mr. Stark?” Peter whispers, heart pounding. He kind of doesn’t want to wake him up. He has no idea what he’s supposed to say.

Mr. Stark doesn’t react. It’s not surprising. He had been- well- really fucked up last night. Shockingly coherent despite it – Peter guesses he’s had practice – but really, _really_ drunk, to the point that Peter had started mentally flipping through everything six weeks of college have taught him about acute alcohol poisoning.

Of course, then he had gotten distracted.

He had let himself pretend, for a minute, nearly let himself give in. Pretended it was one of his stupid, late-night fantasies – the ones that, lately, had started to look a lot like last night. Just the two of them, on the couch in Mr. Stark’s penthouse, Mr. Stark kissing him, Mr. Stark’s voice soft and low calling him sweet, embarrassing little pet names and saying he needs Peter as much as Peter needs him. Taking him to pieces without even trying.

They generally hadn’t included Mr. Stark drinking himself half to death first, though. Peter doesn’t want to think about it. 

Peter slowly, carefully slides out from underneath Mr. Stark and gets up off the couch. Mr. Stark makes a disgruntled noise and mashes his face into the couch cushion, but he doesn’t wake up. Peter just looks at him for a moment. He knows the cliché is that people look peaceful and unburdened in sleep, but there’s still something taut and stressed and unhappy on Mr. Stark’s face when Peter looks at him, something that never really goes away. Peter hates it. He hates it so much.

The penthouse is still and silent as he stands there. It looks strange, for some reason, and he realizes after a moment that he’s never seen it in the early morning sunlight before.

What do people do on mornings after? Peter has no clue. Is this even a morning after? It’s definitely the closest to one he’s ever had. It’s pretty sad.

He does know how to take care of a hangover, though. At least he can do that.

He goes into the kitchen to get some water. There are more empty bottles in there, and they're not just from last night.

“FRIDAY?” Peter asks.

“Yes, Peter?” FRIDAY says. Her voice is modulated soft and low. She probably already has some sort of hangover protocol programmed into her.

He looks at the bottles again and chews his lip, then sighs.

He’s not allowed to have that – not allowed to be the one who worries about Mr. Stark.

“Do you know if there are any painkillers around here?” he asks instead.

FRIDAY points him to the medicine cabinet in the hall bathroom. He grabs them and the water and puts them on the coffee table by Mr. Stark’s head.

Then, since Mr. Stark is still asleep, he goes to make breakfast.

Peter is slightly surprised that Mr. Stark has bacon and eggs in the fridge, right next to a pitcher of that disgusting green smoothie thing he drinks – he’s pretty sure _Mr. Stark_ would be surprised Mr. Stark has bacon and eggs in the fridge – but he won’t complain. As he’s pulling them out, he notices a horrific, tacky looking novelty Iron Man-printed apron hanging near the stove.

“Oh my god, what even is this,” he says. He’s actually slightly more surprised at Mr. Stark owning an apron at all than at the fact that it has a giant picture of his face on it.

“Colonel Rhodes thought Boss would find it funny,” FRIDAY says, and Peter doesn’t know if he’s imagining the hint of laughter in her voice. He grabs it and pulls it on, just because of how stupid it looks, grinning to himself briefly as he starts cracking the eggs.

It’s about then that he finally loses the fight with his own brain to not compulsively analyze last night, to obsessively turn it over and over in his mind and examine it from every angle.

The thing is - for a while after Mr. Stark had come back, they had been closer than they ever had been before. Before everything had happened. Peter would drop by Mr. Stark’s place constantly, not just to work in his personal lab but to hang out, like they were... friends, nearly. They’d order take out and watch terrible sci-fi together, Mr. Stark constantly heckling the screen just to make Peter laugh.

Mr. Stark would ask him, sometimes, in this weird, strained voice, if Peter really wanted to spend so much of his time with a boring old man like him. _Wouldn’t you rather be hanging out with your friends?_ Peter would scoff and make a joke about Mr. Stark’s age, but internally he always just thought – of course not. His friends hadn’t _been dead_.

It had been too good to be true, and he had kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. There was this insecure voice in the back of his head that hadn’t quite been surprised when Mr. Stark had suddenly been too busy to ever see him or return his calls, except for an occasional session in the lab – but it had still hurt.

All he could think at the time was that he had gotten too obvious. Too desperate and pathetic, begging for too much of Mr. Stark’s time when Mr. Stark was still adjusting to being alive again. He's sure Mr. Stark’s known about his stupid, childish crush since the day they met, but since he had come back it had become too- real. Serious. It had long since stopped being about _Iron Man_ and started just being about Mr. Stark, Mr. Stark with his terrible taste in burgers and objectively wrong opinions about Star Wars and whose eyes crinkle up in the corners when he smiles for real, and Peter hadn’t even noticed how fake most of his smiles are until he had gotten the _real_ one directed at him so often- Mr. Stark who had _held him_ when he _died_ -

Yeah. Peter’s got it so bad. He had assumed that Mr. Stark had noticed and had been gently trying to push him away, and when Peter hadn’t taken the hint had to cut him off instead.

Of course, now he thinks - maybe Mr. Stark just hadn't wanted Peter to see what bad shape he's in. Hadn’t been able to hide how much he was hurting. The thought makes him twist with guilt. If he hadn’t come over last night on an impulsive whim, willing to apologize for anything he had done to make it weird between them, he wonders if he’d ever have seen him like that.

Or maybe – maybe it’s just the other thing. He can still remember vividly how it felt, Mr. Stark’s mouth pressing the words _I want you all the time, that’s why you have to stay away_ into his neck. Remembers how it felt when he-

Peter takes a deep breath and wills himself not to get a boner while cooking breakfast. He pokes at the eggs and stares at them like they’ll give him all the answers. They don’t, but he does think they’re probably sufficiently eggy for breakfast.

He doesn't know what to think about what Mr. Stark had said and done. It's hard to stamp down the fluttering hope in his chest. He keeps having to tell himself it doesn't mean anything. _It doesn't mean anything_. All it means is that Mr. Stark finds him attractive enough to hit on him while drunk, which is super flattering, but if past data is anything to go by it's a category that includes most of the adult human population (and more than a few aliens).

But some of the things he had said had been so much more than that-

But does it even matter? The words _do you think I’d be doing this sober_ ring through his head, sharp and unpleasant. Mr. Stark can say all of the sweet things he wants when he’s drunk, but if he’s just going to blow it off today and take it all back- if he’s going to wake up today disgusted at what he did-

But if Mr. Stark did mean it like that - if he does want Peter, actually wants _Peter_ and not just the closest warm body, if he wants Peter so badly he maybe even pushed Peter away because he couldn’t stand to be near him without having him – if it’s just that he feels guilty about it - it makes Peter think that maybe he has a chance.

It also makes him pretty fucking annoyed.

“So I guess my opinion on that doesn’t matter,” he mutters under his breath, ripping open the bacon package a little too hard. “Why would it, if _Tony Stark’s_ already made up his mind on what’s best for me.” For the cherry on top, as he goes to add the bacon to the pan, he’s so distracted by his own miserable thoughts that he burns his finger.

In the middle of swearing and running it under water, he hears shuffling behind him. He tries to ignore the spike of adrenaline, turning to see Mr. Stark slumped in the doorway, wearing the same rumpled clothes from last night.

He looks terrible. His eyes are bloodshot, hair a mess. Peter’s heart skips a beat anyway.

He can see the gray streaks peeking in at Mr. Stark’s temples and it makes something in his chest go weirdly hurt and tender. He wants to kiss them, those and his crow’s feet and the laugh lines around his mouth.

Mr. Stark clears his throat.

“Hey, kid,” he says, low and hoarse, and that really shouldn’t do things to Peter. “Thanks for the meds. Tip for the future, when you’re my age your body really doesn’t like self-medicating with booze.”

“Hey,” Peter says, voice high with nerves. “Uh… I made breakfast? Ish? I thought you might need it.” he says, gesturing at the stove like an idiot.

Mr. Stark looks blankly at the still raw bacon and the slightly congealed eggs. 

“I have food here?” he asks. “Edible food?” He stares at Peter for a long moment, unreadable, head tipped against the doorframe. He looks down at the apron, and his face does something weird. 

Finally, Mr. Stark closes his eyes, scrubs his hand over his face. His shoulders slump a little. “Pete, about last night…”

Peter knows that tone. Well, that’s at least some of his question answered. 

“I’m really sorry, Mr. Stark,” he says in a rush.

Mr. Stark blinks at him.

“You’re… sorry?” he says, like he doesn’t understand.

“Yeah, you, um- clearly you didn’t, uh, you wouldn’t have done- what you did, last night, if you had been sober, and- and I kind of knew that, and I should have said something sooner, so-,” Peter fumbles. 

Mr. Stark blinks again and shakes his head, like he’s trying to focus.

“What?” he says. “No, no, I’m supposed to be apologizing to you. I remember that part pretty clearly.”

“No, you don’t, it’s fine,” Peter says, really not needing to hear again how Mr. Stark’s sorry but he’d never, ever do something like that sober.

“Nope, I definitely do. For-” he sighs and grimaces. “For being- completely inappropriate, and making you uncomfortable, and violating your boundaries,” he says, like he practiced before he came in here, “and losing control of myself, and… a lot of other things I had put on the list this morning, but I think you get the point.”

“Oh. Uh. No, it was fine, I wasn’t uncomfortable,” Peter says, feeling his face heat up a little. He had thought it had been painfully obvious how easy he is for literally anything Mr. Stark wants to give him.

“No, I can remember- you looked upset-” Mr. Stark says, frowning.

“Yeah, only because you were wasted,” Peter says, getting just a little annoyed that Mr. Stark is making him spell out the obvious. “I wasn’t- I wasn’t going to- you think I would take advantage of that just because I- I-”

“Agree to disagree?” he asks, fond and rueful, skipping right over Peter’s implied confession. “But, okay. Point taken. Let’s try this instead: I made some really bad, drunken decisions last night, and you handled it far better than I deserved, and I’m eternally grateful, and now we can both forget it and never speak of it again. Sound good?”

It’s an easy out, if Mr. Stark doesn’t actually want him. Mr. Stark will ignore Peter’s feelings like he graciously ignored that stupid crush for years, and Peter can pretend he doesn’t know what it feels like to almost get what he wants.

But. He still hasn’t actually said he didn’t want to do it. If this is just because Mr. Stark feels _guilty_ -

“No,” Peter says.

Mr. Stark stares at him.

“No?” he says, hesitantly.

“Did you mean it?” Peter asks, before he can lose his nerve. He clenches one hand into a fist behind his back so it’ll stop shaking. “The things you said last night.”

“That’s not-”

“Did you _mean it_ ,” Peter says again.

Mr. Stark swallows visibly and looks away.

“Yeah, I meant it,” he says.

“Good,” Peter says, but the bleak tone Mr. Stark said it in isn't particularly promising. “I, uh, I wouldn’t mind hearing some of it again. If you wanted.”

Mr. Stark squeezes his eyes shut for a moment.

“It’s not about what I want,” he says hoarsely.

“I don’t see why not,” Peter says. “I want it. And you want it too.”

“A crush you’ve had since you were twelve doesn’t count as-”

“Don’t,” Peter says, heated. “You know that’s not what it is. Not anymore. Don’t I get a say in this?”

“A say in what, exactly? A say in whether or not I screw you up for the rest of your life?”

“That’s not what it would be. I know you. I know it wouldn’t,” he says, and he’s absolutely certain of it. And then, because he hopes it might get rid of that awful look on Mr. Stark’s face: “And, like, come on, don’t give yourself _that_ much credit.”

Mr. Stark flicks his eyes over to Peter’s. They’re very dark. The corner of his mouth twitches upward, just a little, and Peter feels the first, tentative stirrings of hope.

Mr. Stark pushes himself off of the door frame and comes a little closer to Peter.

“Kid. It’s not that easy. You know that I’m – I’m a fucking mess, okay? I’ve been a mess for – my entire life, actually. That’s not suddenly going to change now. And I don’t want to put that on you. I can’t. You don’t deserve that.”

“But I want you to put that on me. I care about you, I want to- to be someone you can rely on-”

"Pete, you’re _eighteen_ ,” Mr. Stark says, and there’s a desperate edge to his voice like he’s trying to convince himself as much as Peter. “You deserve to have a normal life that doesn’t involve dealing with my bullshit. Where you can go to college parties and hook up with people and, and have an age appropriate relationship-"

“So if I told you I _have_ been hooking up with people at college parties,” he tests, and trails off as Mr. Stark’s eyes dart up to his, something in them that looks suspiciously like- “Would you be jealous?”

“No,” Mr. Stark says tightly. Peter feels something gleeful curl around inside of him. He is, he’s jealous, he wants Peter for himself. “Don’t look at me like that. You shouldn’t like it.”

“Sorry,” he says, and steps closer to Mr. Stark. He’s not sorry. They’re within an arm’s length, now. “But, you know - I really haven’t. I tried to do the whole college hook up thing. And you know what? It kind of sucks when you’re thinking about someone else the entire time. So I never…” he makes a stupid gesture with his hand that’s supposed to mean _I never did much of anything because it just made me feel even lonelier that it wasn’t you_. Mr. Stark’s eyes snap over to it.

"And you said – you said I should have a normal life. But I had to learn – I don’t have one, and I’m not ever going to, because I’m not normal. I like that I can pretend for a little bit, with my friends from school, but... when I'm around them too long I start to feel like I’m suffocating, because there's this, this invisible wall between me and them that’s trapping me, because they’ll never be able to understand-" his voice wobbles a little, completely humiliating. "I tried, I tried, but. Sometimes I only feel normal when I'm around you. You _know_ what's it's like, you know what I've-" 

He takes a deep breath.

“You know last week they let me switch my dorm room to a single because I kept waking my roommate up with my nightmares?” The stricken look on Mr. Stark’s face says that he hadn’t. “So, you know. We’re both messed up. But I think maybe this can help, a little.”

There's something very soft and a little sad in Mr. Stark's eyes. He reaches out to touch Peter's cheek, then closes his eyes like he's surrendering.

“Okay,” Mr. Stark says, softly. “Okay.” He takes a deep breath and opens his eyes. “Is that your closing argument?”

He’s suddenly standing very close. His thumb traces across Peter’s cheekbone, up and around the shell of his ear. 

“Yeah,” Peter says, a little breathlessly. “That’s all I’ve got. Uh. I also think you’re really hot?”

“Should’ve led with that,” Mr. Stark says, “Appeal to my ego.” There’s a tender, fragile look on his face Peter’s never seen before. He moves closer and kisses Peter gently, soft and sweet, one hand on the small of Peter’s back. Peter stands there like an idiot for a second before his brain boots back up and he registers that _yes, it’s actually happening_. He finally remembers to move and kiss back, looping his arms around Mr. Stark’s neck and pressing in close. Mr. Stark runs his other hand up Peter’s ear and through his hair and Peter shivers hard. Mr. Stark keeps doing it, and nips at Peter’s lip, deepening the absurdly chaste kiss.

When he finally comes up for air, Peter breaks into an embarrassing grin. He doesn’t bother to pull back far, keeping his forehead tipped against Mr. Stark’s.

"Mr. Stark-"

"Kid," Mr. Stark says, then stops himself with a self-deprecating smile. "Peter. If we're doing this, you gotta stop saying that."

"Tony," Peter says, and somehow smiles even wider. It feels a little weird, but he likes it. They’re doing this.

“I’m sorry that I…”

“Kind of ghosted me for like two months?” Peter volunteers.

“I think _ghosted_ is a little strong,” Tony murmurs, playing with the short hairs on the back of Peter’s neck. It sends pleasant little shivers up his spine. “But yes. I’m sorry I’m an asshole. And I’m sorry I wasn’t paying enough attention to notice that you- that it’s been hard for you, too.” He presses a kiss to Peter’s hairline. “You can come over whenever you like, sweetheart.” And- yep. That’s still really doing it for Peter.

“So I guess I just won’t ever leave,” Peter says, and then immediately decides that might have been too strong for post- real first kiss banter. “Uh, you know, you’re a lot better at that whole kissing thing now that you’re… more coordinated.”

Tony tries to narrow his eyes dangerously, but his pleased smile kind of ruins the effect.

“You little shit. I don’t want to brag, but- what am I saying, of course I want to brag. Peter,” he says, running his thumb over Peter’s bottom lip, slowly, pressing just a little, so casually possessive it makes Peter flush with desperate want, “I am going to blow your fucking mind.”

He leans back in and kisses Peter harder, rougher, more demanding. Peter just takes it, melts into it, lets Tony control the kiss and lets himself get swept up in it.

Tony’s hand comes up to grab Peter’s hair again, and this time he _pulls_. God. Peter feels the sensation spike through him, hard, a violent spark of heat. He makes a humiliating little whimpering sound and has to use one hand to grab the counter behind him, to brace himself. He can feel it start to crack in his grip. Tony pulls back and stares at Peter for a second with dark, hungry eyes.

“Christ, the way you look,” he says, voice hoarse and unrecognizable, sending another jolt up Peter’s spine. “You have no idea what I want to do to you.”

“You can do whatever you want to me,” Peter says instinctively, which. That was also probably too much. The hand clutching his waist digs in hard for a brief moment.

“You’re going to send me to an early grave, kid,” Tony says. “That’s a dangerous thing to say.” His thumb slips underneath Peter’s shirt and starts stroking the bare skin right above the waistband.

“Yeah? Why?” Peter asks. He bites his lip and tries to look up through his eyelashes, which, honestly, feels kind of ridiculous now that he’s actually doing it. It probably looks kind of ridiculous, too, if the hastily smothered smile on Tony’s face is any indication.

But Tony just grabs Peter’s jaw and kisses him again, and again, and _again_ , completely overwhelming, and Peter’s got his other hand fisted in Tony’s shirt, pulling him down, pressing them together, letting Tony take whatever he wants. Tony’s hard too. _That was me, I did that_ , Peter thinks, a little giddily. He’s half leaning on the counter, and he has a wild, disoriented moment where he actually thinks they’re going to fuck right there, that he’s going to lose his virginity a few minutes before nine in the morning in Tony Stark’s kitchen-

They jerk back from each other as a shrill alarm splits the air. Tony’s panting hard, barely able to catch his breath, and he doesn’t take his eyes off Peter.

"Fuck, the bacon!" Peter exclaims in horror, finally registering the smell of burnt meat, spinning around and grabbing the pan off the burner. There are charred, black remains inside that he distantly remembers having been bacon at some point. He looks around and frantically shoves it all in the sink for lack of a better option. "Shit, uh, sorry – I, uh, I don’t actually really know how to cook-"

He trails off as he notices that Tony is shaking with silent laughter. He pulls Peter close from behind and buries his face in Peter's hair. Peter can feel his lips curling into a smile. 

"FRI, kill the alarm, it’s fine,” Tony says. The alarm cuts out, cocooning them again in the early morning silence. He presses a kiss onto Peter’s head. The line of his body is warm and comforting against Peter’s back. "So, that killed the mood.” At Peter’s embarrassed little noise, he laughs and says “Hey, it’s fine. I shouldn’t be eating bacon anyway. Apparently it’s bad for my cholesterol.”

“Your _cholesterol_? Oh my god, you’re so old. I’ve changed my mind, I take it all back,” Peter says. Tony huffs in mock offense.

“See? This is a terrible idea,” he says, as he keeps pressing little kisses against Peter’s hair. “Legendarily bad. You should back out now if you don’t want your future to be filled with prune juice and Jeopardy reruns.” His voice is light when he says it, in a way that Peter hasn't heard in- he can't even remember. Maybe never. So that’s okay, then. He turns around and loops his arms underneath Tony’s shirt, just because he can, clinging just a little.

"Nope, it’s going to work out great," Peter says, tipping his face up to kiss him again. "Trust me. I like Jeopardy."

"Well, can't argue with that," Tony murmurs, and kisses him back.


End file.
